The Rebound
by carpetinflight
Summary: He was heartbroken, he reminded himself. HarryxGinny, written preHBP.


Harry was pacing. Back and forth across his living room floor, back and forth, back…. The shoes he was wearing were still fairly new and a bit uncomfortable. He stopped to take them off, glancing out the window as he did so. It was a beautiful day. It would be so nice to go down to the park with his new Quidditch Monthly… But no. He was heartbroken, he reminded himself. He needed to stay inside and pace.

From the window to the mantel he walked, now in his socks, then turned and stopped, noticing a crooked picture frame. There was an empty glass sitting on a table too, and he banished it to the kitchen sink. He turned around, looking to see if he'd left anything else out, before noticing the mantel again and remembering what he was meant to be doing.

"Damn. I can't even pace properly," he said, talking out loud to nobody.

Resignedly, he returned to his walking. He tried to think of Hermione-- of her pretty face, their happy relationship, and all the things that had attracted him to her in the first place. All that came to mind, though, was all the arguing they'd been doing lately-- the screaming and then the cold silence. He tried to be regretful, but deep down what he felt was a lot closer to relief.

He threw himself into a chair. This wasn't working. He was meant to be _heartbroken_. If he couldn't pace, and he couldn't stay at home and stew, what could he do?

He could go get drunk with his best friend, that's what.

----------

Harry looked around the pub. Ron often stopped by here after work, he knew. He didn't see his friend's ginger hair, but it was early yet. He would wait.

He found a seat at the bar and ordered a lager. When it arrived, he looked down into the bottom of the glass. That was what heartbroken people did in the songs. There was nothing to see in the glass, though: nothing except for beer. Bubbles rose slowly through the clear amber liquid and collected at the edges in a soft white foam. It didn't make him feel nostalgic, or regretful, or even sad. It made him feel thirsty.

He raised the glass to his mouth and took a sip.

"Pyramid Ale, please," came a familiar voice to his left. He looked up in surprise.

He looked at her intently, aware that he was staring but unable to stop. There was nothing unusual or out of the ordinary about her, really. Nothing there today that wasn't there before. Curvy body, neither fat nor thin; medium height; medium-length red hair. She wore ordinary clothes, just jeans and a white shirt, rolled up to expose the freckles on her forearms.

She turned and looked at him with her plain brown eyes.

"Hey, Harry," she said, smiling. "What are you doing here?"

He gestured mutely toward his lager, feeling his face growing hot. For a moment, he had a vivid memory of a little girl with her elbow in a butter dish.

The bartender arrived and handed Ginny her beer, granting Harry a moment to collect his wits.

"I was looking for Ron, actually," he said.

She turned toward him. "Ron?" she repeated.

"Your brother?" He grinned.

She made a show of looking around the rest of the bar, which was still only about half full.

"He's not here," she said finally, voice entirely serious but with a twinkle in her eye.

"Are you sure? I think I see him right there," he said, pointing to an ancient wizard in a floppy purple beret.

She took a sip of her beer before replying. "Oh, of course. So sorry. Best go talk to him, then."

"Right, I can see it now. 'Mate, Hermione's left me.' 'Eh, speak up there, that's my bad ear,'" Harry mimicked, laughing.

Ginny was not laughing.

"Hermione's left you?"

"All her things are gone."

Ginny's mouth formed a little 'O' of surprise and she covered it with her hand. "Are you all right?"

Harry shrugged and took another sip of his beer. He hoped she didn't want to talk. Sometimes it seemed like that was all Hermione had ever done. Talk, talk, talk. She even wanted to talk in bed. Well, he wouldn't have to deal with _that_ anymore.

Finally, Ginny spoke again.

"I guess you have plenty of room for that motorbike now, then."

"I think I do," he said slowly.

Harry looked over at her and grinned. Her head was cocked to one side and her shiny red hair was tucked behind one ear. Her eyes were warm and amused.

That bike was his inheritance from Sirius, but when he'd tried to bring it in the house Hermione had made little disapproving noises until he'd taken it away again. It was in Arthur Weasley's shed now, under the pretense that there wasn't room for it at Harry's.

His smile grew wider as he thought of putting the greasy old bike in place of Hermione's elegant dining table with the lace tablecloth.

"I have just the place for it," he said.

Ginny raised her glass in salute, and Harry followed suit, touching the edge of his glass to hers with a small clink. They drank a silent toast to the return of the motorbike to its proper home.

Harry set his pint back down on the bar, and felt a strong hand clap him on the shoulder.

"Looking for me, mate?"

"How'd you know?"

"That's the only time you're ever here."

"Is it?" Harry knew that Ron was right, and it surprised him. He used to go down to the pub all the time, just for fun.

"Well, and I reckon you have something you want to talk about," Ron said. "I heard about… well, about what happened."

"Yeah," Harry said, thinking about the countless discussions he'd had recently, about all the talking he'd done with Hermione and about how nice it had been to just sit and drink a pint with Ginny and not have to _talk_ about it.

"Actually, no," he said. "I don't want to talk. You up for a game?" He indicated the pool table.

By the time Harry made his way back to the bar for another pint, Ginny had been joined by a blond wizard.

Without thinking at all about what he was doing, he walked up to them. He rested one hand comfortably on Ginny's shoulder and leaned around her, so that his arm draped across her back.

With a shock, he realized that the wizard sitting with Ginny was Seamus Finnegan. No matter, he was still bothering her.

"Can I get you another pint, Gin?" he asked, already signaling for the bartender.

"Another?" she asked dryly. "You didn't buy me this one." Seamus laughed, and Harry frowned as he ordered two pints. Usually they got on well, but tonight for some reason, Harry couldn't stand him.

"What are you doing here, Potter?" Seamus asked bluntly.

"Just having a pint with some _friends_," Harry replied, irritated and unable to hide it.

The bartender brought the pints and Harry paid him, taking his own and leaving the other on the bar for Ginny. Plastering a fake smile on his face and keeping his arm around Ginny's shoulders, he turned back to his old roommate. "And yourself, _Finnegan_?"

"Myself, I'm chatting up the prettiest girl in the pub," Seamus replied with a smarmy smile. Harry wanted to punch him. "Why don't you leave us and run on home to the little wife?"

"I'm fine here, actually," Harry said, taking a sip of his beer through gritted teeth.

"Won't anyone be expecting you, Potter?"

"No."

"Well, _we_ would prefer to be _alone_," Seamus repeated, his hand clenching into a fist at his side.

"I'll tell you what," Ginny said brightly, standing and moving out of the circle of Harry's arm. "I'll leave the two of you alone." Before either could say anything, she walked off through the crowd toward her brother and the pool tables.

Without a word, Harry drained the rest of his pint and left the pub, his head spinning.

----------

When he arrived at his flat, he walked straight into the bedroom without turning on the lights. He collapsed into the left side of the double bed and fell asleep wearing his clothes and shoes.

He woke in the morning with a bit of a headache and walked into the kitchen, starting the Muggle-style percolator with his wand. When the coffee was ready, he poured himself a generous cup and leaned back on the counter to drink it.

The flat looked strangely empty and he blinked a couple of times, trying to think why that was the case. He had a feeling he should know.

Oh right. Hermione had moved out.

He shrugged and went back to his coffee. He should probably be heartbroken or something now, but he'd tried that the night before and it hadn't worked out too well. A picture of Ginny appeared in his mind. She was as she had been the night before, smiling at him and tucking her brilliant red hair behind one ear. She was saying something to him, but he just kept looking at her eyes, her face… What had she said? Harry frowned in concentration, but it only made his head hurt more. He took another sip of coffee.

_I guess you'll have plenty of room for that motorbike now._

Harry grinned and walked briskly across the room toward the fireplace, lighting a fire with his wand. Only when he grabbed the box of Floo powder off the mantel did he stop to look down at himself. He was still wearing the black pants and gray jumper he'd worn the night before, now rumpled from sleep and smelling of smoke and alcohol.

He doused the fire and stepped back. Maybe it'd be best to have a shower first. He didn't want Ginny to see him like this.

It wasn't until he was in the shower that he realized it was true. He really didn't want Ginny to see him looking such a mess. He actually _cared_ what she saw when she looked at him.

He cast the shaving charm carefully, remembering vividly the time he had missed and removed half his eyebrow in seventh year. Dressing in jeans and a fitted black tee shirt, he made his way back to the hearth.

He grabbed a handful of powder from the jar on the mantel and threw it into the flames, and stepped gingerly in after it.

"The Burrow," he said, trying to speak as loudly and clearly as he could, given that he was standing in an open fire. For a few moments, it seemed as though he were spinning and the rest of the world were standing still, and then suddenly he was forced forward into the Weasleys' small living room.

He shook the ash and soot from his clothing and looked around. The room looked exactly as it had the last time he was there: packed full of worn sofas and mended spellbooks, ragged curtains and little rickety end-tables. One thing was different, though. The house was usually full of people, but today it seemed completely still. He listened carefully, but he could not even hear Mrs. Weasley bustling around upstairs.

A wave of disappointment washed over him and he ran a hand through his freshly-washed hair. Of course she wasn't there. Why would she be? Because he'd been so charming and intelligent the night before at the pub? Right.

He was tempted to turn around and go home, to wait for a time when she'd be here.

He shook himself. This was ridiculous. _I'm here for the bike_, he reminded himself. _The bike, Potter_.

He walked purposefully through the living room and kitchen and out the back door, heading for the shed in the backyard where Mr. Weasley kept his Muggle machinery .

He opened the door and walked into the shed, peering through the low light at the piles of clutter that filled the small room. He could make out a rusty washing machine, a bicycle missing both its tires, and a lumpy shape underneath a dust cloth in the corner. Sidestepping a bucket of hammers, he walked slowly towards it.

He lifted a corner of the cloth, exposing a flat rear tire and dull, pockmarked chrome trim. Sighing, he removed the cloth completely, exposing dry, cracked rubber handgrips, congealed oil, torn leather, and another flat tire.

Sirius' only legacy to him was falling apart. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" said a voice from behind him. He didn't have to turn around to know it was Ginny.

A laugh burst from his lips without warning, although he still felt more like crying.

"This is much better than a girlfriend," Ginny said. Harry was confused for a moment, until he realized that she meant Hermione. The girl he was meant to be all broken up about. "Better than that one, anyway," she said dryly.

At this, he turned to look at her. She wore jeans and an old Weird Sisters tee shirt, and her hair was swept up in a ponytail. A pair of dirty gardening gloves hung from her back pocket.

"I thought you were friends with her," he said finally, half looking for an answer and half wanting to break the silence.

"I am. And so are you," she pointed out. "That doesn't mean I think she's right for you."

"No?" he asked, taking a step closer to her.

"I notice you're not terribly upset right now," she said. "Not crushed because you've lost your soulmate? Your one chance at happiness? Your destiny?"

He laughed again, this time in pure amusement.

"My _soulmate_?" he repeated, laughing again. He remembered how her hair was so bushy that he couldn't get his fingers through it, how she could barely bring herself to watch a quidditch match, let alone discuss one, how she hadn't wanted Sirius' motorbike in the flat.

He smiled at Ginny. "I guess I'll live."

She turned her head away from him to look down at the bike. A beam of sunlight shone through the small window and onto her face, and her pale skin seemed to glow for a moment.

"Well, now you have something new to distract you from the horribly debilitating pain you're in."

He was having trouble swallowing, so he said nothing.

Dust particles danced toward her in the light, as if she were pulling them in. He licked his lips.

"You should try to fix it up," she said, and he barely heard her. "There's a book in the compartment here, but it's not really as helpful as I thought it might be…" She lifted the seat up on hinges Harry hadn't known existed, and pulled out a well-thumbed book entitled _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance_. Her fingers were long and thin, with freckles on the knuckles.

She turned the book over in her hands, frowning slightly. A wisp of hair hung against the side of her face, Gryffindor red. She brushed it away impatiently.

He lifted his hand slowly and touched her face, tucking the hair behind her ear. Her skin was soft and warm from the morning sun. He did not want to pull his hand away, and so he left it there to its own devices, trailing slowly down the side of her neck.

She lifted her hand now, and pressed it to his. For a moment, he was afraid she was going to move it, or say something, but she just held her hand there on top of his. Tilting her head, she looked up at him and her eyes met his, warm and brown and wide open.

He lowered his head and leaned toward her, parting his lips so that when they met hers, his mouth was already open. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her to him as her small tongue brushed against his lips. Ginny's mouth was warm and soft under his, and she returned his kisses with fervor. Her breasts were crushed against his chest, her hips pressed to his, and one of her hands clutched convulsively at the fabric of his shirt while the other slid down his back and below his belt. Her leg was moving rhythmically, rubbing against his inner thigh, and just when he thought he would cry if she didn't move it just a little bit farther—

She stopped. Her mouth stopped kissing him, her arms stopped holding him, her body stopped pressing against him.

She stepped backwards, away from him, and he stepped forward to follow her. When he tried to put his arms around her again, she stopped him.

"No, Harry – don't, I – this is not a good idea."

"What?" he asked, startled and confused.

"This – you and me – kissing." She was clearly flustered.

"What? Why?"

She flushed and crossed her arms over her chest, and he noticed that her nipples were hardened to little points that showed through her shirt.

"It's not a good idea," she repeated stubbornly.

"Bloody hell. You liked it just fine a second ago." He was getting angry now, but whether he was angry with himself for kissing her until all the blood in his body went straight to his dick, or angry with her for kissing him back and then stopping, he couldn't say.

"You're on the rebound. You need…" she trailed off, as if looking for the right word. "Well, I won't do that for you."

He stared at her blankly. She stared back, and neither of them said anything.

"I'm not going to sleep with you just to help you get over your girlfriend!" she screamed finally, and turned towards the door.

He couldn't help it. His stomach muscles started to convulse, and the laughter bubbled up out of his chest and through his mouth before his brain could tell him that this was probably not a good idea either. He closed his eyes and took great gasping breaths of air, trying to slow the laughter, but every time he thought about what she had said he laughed again.

She was standing with her back to him and one hand on the door.

"What?" she asked stiffly.

"Is that what you really think?" he asked, laughing again at the thought. "That I'm so crushed I was going to push you down on the floor and have you right here?" That brought the laughter to a halt, and the blood rushing back down to his groin. The idea wasn't actually half bad.

She turned to look at him, and he shifted uncomfortably.

"You said yourself I'm not terribly heartbroken," he said.

She just stood there silently, as if waiting for him to say more.

He sighed. "This – with Hermione—this has been coming for a long time now, Gin. A _long_ time. And kissing you… that had nothing to do with her. I just saw you, and I—you—you looked amazing, and I just had to…"

She laughed as he said this, looking down at her grass-stained jeans and her old tee shirt. He took a step forward and stood in front of her, not daring to touch her again yet.

"You did. You do. And I… you have…" He ran his fingers through his hair. "Kissing you had nothing to do with her. There's a _reason_ that's over. And it is over. Well and truly." The words were spilling out of him now, and he didn't even realize until he heard himself say them how true they really were.

"This has nothing to do with anyone else. I woke up this morning thinking about one girl, Gin. _You_."

At that her hard expression seemed to melt, and when he leaned down to kiss her again, she met him halfway.


End file.
